


take me to the place where you always go

by inmoonlightigetseasick



Series: where you always go [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, general tenderness, lots of jet-setting around the world to dance around each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 12:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20675534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmoonlightigetseasick/pseuds/inmoonlightigetseasick
Summary: Work has taken them to a dozen or so odd countries together, and somewhere along the way Napoleon’s grudging respect for Illya had fallen away, to a broader, overwhelming feeling that was too dangerous to even think about for too long at a time. A feeling that made Napoleon want to draw Illya further and further into his space. A feeling that made Napoleon’s chest ache every time he saw the gentle camaraderie Illya now shared with Gaby. A feeling that made Napoleon helpless, scramble for words, soothe the panic with a gulp of whiskey.--It happened in Rome, or maybe it happened a long time before then. Now it's just up to Napoleon to convince Illya that it's real. False starts, long distances-- they remain each other's constants.





	take me to the place where you always go

-

**rome**

They’re in Rome again. It’s midsummer, with a drink in his hand, Napoleon stands by the window of their lavish hotel room. A different hotel, certainly, than the one Illya had his way with last time. In the diffuse warm air, the din of the city has that familiar, ancient quality. He looks back at Illya, meticulously positioning his chess pieces for a game against himself. He chuckles, fond, something honey-gold warms his chest, he’s not sure if it’s just the whiskey. There’s something childlike about the hulking Russian when he’s focused on his game. It makes Napoleon think of the quiet boys tucked into the corners of the playground setting up their boards with a quiet determination, ready to become oblivious to the world around them.

He earns an irritable look from Illya for staring at him too long, which he answers with an easy grin. 

“Do you remember the last time we were here?”

The corners of Illya’s mouth quirk up in surprise. Napoleon’s eyes are fixated on that movement before they are drawn to the equally mesmerizing movement of Illya’s hands, his long fingers wrapping around a rook. 

“I was playing a good game until Gaby interrupted me.” 

Napoleon chuckles, “Should she and Waverley be back soon?”

Illya considers the time on his watch. “I do not think they will be until late.” He looks up at Napoleon curiously. “I will tell you now before you drink too much, you will not have a dance partner tonight.” 

“Don’t speak too soon, Peril.”

“It’s different than before,” Illya says, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “but not that different.” 

Napoleon considers his words for a minute, tearing his gaze from the mischievous sparkle in Illya’s eyes. He considers how things have changed. Last time they were in Rome, it would not have been so easy to tempt Illya into his room, to share a leisurely night together between missions. Work has taken them to a dozen or so odd countries together, and somewhere along the way Napoleon’s grudging respect for Illya had fallen away, to a broader, overwhelming feeling that was too dangerous to even think about for too long at a time. A feeling that made Napoleon want to draw Illya further and further into his space. A feeling that made Napoleon’s chest ache every time he saw the gentle camaraderie Illya now shared with Gaby. A feeling that made Napoleon helpless, scramble for words, soothe the panic with a gulp of whiskey. 

“We’re quite the team now,” he reflects, smiling but looking into his glass, the last dredges of the amber liquid. He crosses the room to the drink cart to pour himself another, but something stops him when he reaches the centre, where Illya is stationed with his game. 

“Is that the chess set I got you in Cairo?” There’s a spread of warm, indescribable feeling in his chest as he looks down at it, the ornate wood carving that it had nearly cost him an arm and a leg to acquire. Illya looks intently at the set. 

“Lost pieces in my other one,” he grumbles. 

“I thought you said you refused to ‘possess stolen goods’”

“It was a gift,” Illya says as if that’s an explanation.

“Yeah, from me.” A thief, as Illya liked to point out, as if Napoleon could forget, could shake the impulse that made his fingers itch at the sight of beautiful things. 

“Yes. From you.”

Illya looks at him for a long moment, and it feels meaningful, but Napoleon can’t quite understand it. He’s lost the thread of the joke somewhere, so he just shrugs and continues on his way to the drink cart. 

“Will you pour me one?” The question comes, and Napoleon sloshes a bit of whiskey over the edge of his cup in surprise. He turns to look at Illya quizzically, lifting his hand to lick the drops spilled around the edge of his palm. It’s good stuff, no use wasting it. Illya looks at him, growing a bit pale. He clears his throat. “If there’s vodka.” 

“Sure,” Napoleon says, turning back to pour a generous glass. “It’s not Russian.” He says by way of apology as he hands Illya his glass. 

“It will do,” he says, and Napoleon watches him carefully take a small sip and then another, impressively hiding his wince. 

“I’ll play this round with you,” Napoleon offers, sitting down on the floor across from Illya he gestures to the board. 

“I had been hoping for a challenge, but I suppose you will do.” 

“Very funny,” Napoleon deadpans, “Make your move.” 

They play a depressingly quick game. And then another. And another. It’s not Napoleon’s fault he keeps losing. He’s being sabotaged by his own traitorous mind, ever distracted by the golden light in Illya’s hair, the pink of his tongue darting out when he takes a sip of his drink, the way he can see his eyes flick and calculate his next move. He’s also now four drinks in, and Illya’s at three. 

“Okay, get up now.” Napoleon says, hoisting himself to his feet. Pushing the coffee table to the side, he steps back into the open space in front of the couches and makes an impatient gesture at Illya. Furrowing his brow, he stands nonetheless, and holds his hands awkwardly in front of him. Napoleon grins, and he brushes past him to saunter over to the record player. With a quick move of the needle, soft crooning music begins to play, a heavy, romantic piano line. Illya huffs and rolls his eyes, but Napoleon’s limbs are too smooth with whiskey and Illya is too handsome, and he knows Illya is too kind to disallow him this now. 

So he walks back over, swaying his hips a little to the music, not missing the way Illya’s eyes track the movement. He comes to a stop in front of Illya, in his space, and his grin widens when Illya does not move away. He holds out his hand, and Illya considers it. But that vodka must be worth its weight in gold because he takes Napoleon’s hand, sending a shiver of electricity through his palm. 

Wordlessly, Illya moves his other hand to grab Napoleon’s waist, and he ignores how his breath hitches at the contact. Napoleon settles his other hand at Illya’s shoulder and grins when Illya rolls his eyes before slowly beginning to move them to the music. 

“Taking the lead then, Peril?”

“As if I have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Napoleon grins, “you just can’t say no to me.”

“I can.”

“Oh, really?” He really can’t stop smiling now, an impossible burst of affection colours everything in his sight, every word that comes out of his mouth. 

“Try me.” 

“Okay, here’s an easy one. Can I kiss you?”

Illya freezes. Napoleon feels an itch of panic in his chest. Has he gone too far? 

“Do not joke about that,” Illya’s shaky voice finally comes. His eyes are fixed on Napoleon’s lips. His grip is tight on Napoleon’s hand, on his hip. Napoleon realizes, with a start, that he may have badly misread the situation.

“I’m not joking,” he says, surprised by the breathlessness of his own voice. 

Illya leans in then, and Napoleon thinks he must be losing his mind. It’s tentative, and slow, but Napoleon doesn’t mind being patient. He would wait until the end of the world for this man, and it’s a terrifying thought. He feels strands of Illya’s hair, falling out from where he’s neatly combed it, and brushing against his forehead. He feels Illya’s breath on his lips. He’s hesitating, and it feel like it might never happen until he leans down, touches their lips together. It’s brief, explosive, and then he draws back, his eyes wide, his pupils blown wide open. And now it feels like the floodgates have opened. Before he can stop himself, Napoleon pushes up to touch his lips back to Illya’s, keeping them there, he feels the world fall out from beneath his feet. Illya kisses him so gently he can’t think, instead he opens his mouth helplessly to let Illya deepen the kiss, find his tongue with his own. His hands travel from Illya’s shoulder to his neck, stroking down his back, he pulls him closer. They’re still swaying to the music, Illya’s strong arms circling around his back and holding him tight. 

They come up for air, the music stops. Napoleon smiles and kisses Illya again. The side of his mouth, his jaw, and down his neck. But something’s changed. Illya is stiff against his touch. He’s worryingly still. Napoleon leans back to look up at him.

“Everything okay?”

There’s something in his expression, written plainly in the ice blue of his eyes, that answers his question. It looks like panic, like regret. And now it feels a little bit like a piece of Napoleon’s chest is caving in. He swallows past the hurt. Suddenly, touch burns. He extricates himself from Illya quickly, puts a foot of distance between them, smooths down his clothes. 

“So,” he says, his voice hoarse, “That was nice.”

“Napoleon.” He’s bracing for it. Illya has used his real name only a handful of times in their partnership, never quite with so grave a tone. Then there’s also Illya’s shifty gaze, his hands smoothing down his hair, fidgeting. It tells all him before Illya does. “I am sorry. I think this was a mistake.” There it is.

“Don’t worry about it,” he attempts a friendly pat on Illya’s shoulder, but Illya shrinks back from the touch and it stings. He takes a breath and tries a smile. “It won’t happen again.”

—

**dubrovnik **

He’s not sure why, but he does particularly well in Croatia. Every night feels vibrant and filled with possibility. The city seems overflowing with beautiful people, each of them with a story and a body for Napoleon to learn. It’s perhaps collateral that every new pair of lips he kisses help him forget the last, and that takes him farther and farther from that night in Rome. 

For what it’s worth, Gaby and Illya are distracted by some personal drama this mission that he would rather not get involved in. There are more than enough women to keep his attention. He knows Illya notices, every night, when he brings another one home. For weeks he says nothing, only glares at the flashes of love bites on Napoleon’s neck. 

Then, one night, there is a man. 

He catches Napoleon by surprise, finding him on another lonely night, in an unfamiliar bar. He makes himself familiar. His skin is dark and supple. His voice is a deep, smooth baritone. His hair is impossibly soft, and so are his lips. And when Napoleon takes him back to his room, he thinks he’s never quite been so anxious to devour someone—or be devoured by someone. 

Until he sees Illya. He’s waiting by Napoleon’s door, chess set in hand. He turns when he hears Napoleon coming, and Napoleon freezes. Behind him, possessive arms circle his chest and a possessive mouth kisses his neck, impatient. 

Illya sees him. Sees them. Retreats down the hallway to his room without speaking. Napoleon is still frozen. He’s a little thankful that the moonlight was shining on him, and that his vision was a little blurred from the drinking. He’s not sure he could have taken it, just then, if he’d caught disappointment on Illya’s face, maybe disgust, or hurt. 

He doesn’t want to dwell on it, but, he’s never had any complaints about his enthusiasm before that night. 

The next morning, when he greets Illya at breakfast, he’ll admit he’s a little moody about how his night went. There’s no one really to blame, but, it was a little disappointing— like an opportunity squandered. Illya is just as much of a dark cloud as he is. 

It’s Gaby who finally breaks the silence, “Because I am your friend, I thought I would let you know, but Waverley is this close to sending you two off to a cabin in the middle of Norway to get you to sort this… catfight or whatever it is out. Do you think we can find a solution before it comes to that?” 

She sips her coffee pointedly, and glares at Napoleon and Illya seated across from her. 

Napoleon looks at Illya, plastering on the kind of false smile that he knew would make the Russian mad, he spoke with feigned nonchalance designed to irritate him, “I wasn’t aware of any catfight. Were you, Peril?”

“No. We are not fighting.” Illya’s deadpan is spoken through gritted teeth. 

“Boys, leave acting to Burton and Taylor, okay? Tell me, what’s wrong.”

“Assuming, I’m the Taylor in this situation,” Napoleon starts, flashing Illya a wicked grin that makes him fume even more, “I can promise you that the old grouch and I will work this out by the time we next land in New York.” 

“Work it out now.” With that and a huff, she gets out of her seat, tossing her napkin on the table for emphasis she storms out. 

“Well, you heard the woman, Peril. Is there a problem here?”

“No.”

“Oh come on. Can we not do this? If something’s bothering you—”

“I have no problem with you or the things you choose to do with your time between missions. I only ask that you practice a little discretion. Believe me. Not everyone is as understanding.”

_Oh_. Okay then. Napoleon feels the surge of anger before he even takes in the full extent of Illya’s words. He hadn’t missed it then, the look of disgust in his expression the night before. It hurts more than he had imagined. For a moment, it’s all he can focus on, his brain blank of every smart-ass response he would otherwise spit out. Disastrously, he can feel his face going red. He’s not sure where to look— he can’t meet Illya’s eyes— so he opts for the floor, then the window, or the wall just behind Illya is suddenly so interesting. He swallows, his throat suddenly feeling very raw.

He clears his throat, “Yeah, I think I can manage that. Sorry, I should have been more aware of your sensitivity to this kind of stuff.” He looks at Illya then, who is staring at him, eyes wide and intent. He feels the cruel twist of his chest, and he as he’s speaking he wishes he could have held the ugliness of his words back, “Unlike your mother, these people don’t pay me to fuck them. So. Shouldn’t put them out too much if I ask for bit of discretion.” 

His words hang like a pall about the room. He doesn’t risk a glance at Illya. He only picks up his cup of coffee and leaves. 

When he returns, much later, he’s turned away by a furious Gaby shoving his suitcase at him. They’re on the first plane out, it seems. Illya doesn’t speak to him. Doesn’t look at him. Sits as far away from him as possible on the plane. He notices despite Gaby’s best efforts at distracting him with her interrogation. 

“Structural damage,” Gaby keeps repeating, even long after they’re seated. “What did you say to make him cause _structural damage_ to the hotel?”

—

**mumbai**

They’ve been caught, because of course they have. Because they’re not communicating. Because they started fighting in the middle of a stakeout. Napoleon feels his wrists chafe in the makeshift bounds, his back is sore against the earthen walls of the dungeon in which they’d been deposited. It’s hot—obviously. He’s in black combat gear, they both are, and the heat makes their clothes cling, sweat-dampened, uncomfortable. 

Of course the silent treatment from the Russian isn’t helping. They’re neither strategizing, nor trying to get out, nor getting their stories straight. 

Finally, Napoleon can’t take the silence, the sullen glance Illya casts in his direction. “We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t try to pull that heroic shit,” he sneers. 

“I was not going to let them take you alone.”

“Why not? You could have gone and gotten Gaby, it would have been fine.” 

“That is not the way I operate.” 

“What? Efficiently?”

Illya almost smiles, “Really? You want to talk to me about efficiency?” 

“Oh for chrissake don’t make this another Russia versus America thing.”

“You are the one who brought up efficiency, not me.”

“Nothing about the way you operate is efficient—or makes sense in any way.” 

“How so?”

There’s a long silence. Napoleon breathes, it’s a harsh noise. “No matter how horrible I am to you, you’re still there.”

“Do you want me to go away?”

“No,” he says too fast, “Of course I don’t.”

“We have not been kind to each other. Since Rome.” 

“We don’t have to talk about that…”

“I think we do. I think we finally do.” 

“Not sure how much time we have until they come for us…” 

“Until then we talk.”

Napoleon feels very tired, then. He’s tired of dancing around whatever this is. He’s tired of being mad at Illya, tired of Illya being mad at him. 

“Tell me what you meant… when you said this was a mistake.”

Illya is only illuminated by a dash of moonlight from the square window of the cell, but Napoleon can see the way his eyes widen, the pull of the muscle when he clenches his jaw. It’s a long time before he speaks. 

“This team is important to me. Waverley. What he’s offered me is more than job. It is more than anything I thought possible.”

He stops. Napoleon can see him carefully considering his next words. It makes him feel so anxious, these long stretches of silence, he almost asks if he wants to switch to Russian. But before he can, Illya continues. 

“I cannot risk losing it.” 

Napoleon isn’t sure if he fully understands, but Illya has fallen silent again. “But how does that make kissing me a mistake?”

“I care about you, Cowboy,” Illya says, fast, so quiet Napoleon almost doesn’t hear him. But he does. And his heart leaps into his throat. “But I cannot be what you want.”

“What is it that you assume I want?”

“A warm body. Distraction. Fling.”

“That’s not what you are to me.” There’s an edge of panic to Napoleon’s voice. 

“I think… you do not know how to have anything more.”

“You can’t know that—”

“I don’t want to find out.” That’s like a punch to the stomach. 

“Okay fine.”

“So you understand what I meant?”

“Perfectly.” The mess of hurt and confusion swelling in his chest is making him feel light-headed, he thinks he might need to throw up. But it will have to wait. “The guard is coming in. Let’s go now.”

—

**los angeles **

He’s shaking in the back of a car, hands pressed to Illya’s side where he’s slumped against him. He’s not sure if he’s seeing red from the blood, or if its anger. Gaby is driving recklessly, but at this point a fiery crash is the least of his worries. As if Gaby would let that happen. She’s seething too. 

“Honestly, just when I think you can’t get any more pig-headed,” she mutters, her grip on the steering wheel looks strong enough to crumple the damn thing. 

Napoleon can’t speak. He can only apply pressure, enough so that Illya stays awake from the stinging, so he can listen carefully and not miss a single laboured breath. He’s keeping track. It’s the only thing keeping him sane. 

Gaby drops them off at the safe house and leaves to find Waverley. He’s sorry to see her go, only because she might have been the only thing to break the thick, icy silence that descends upon the two of them as he bundles Illya into the bathroom and carefully peels back his turtleneck. He gestures for Illya down on the edge of the tub, and to Napoleon’s surprise, he obeys.

Flinging open the first aid kit and spilling its contents on the counter he sets to work, keeping his face impassive, but unable to do anything about the twitch in his jaw.

“You are angry with me,” Illya’s voice breaks the silence. Napoleon looks up, eyes wide, incredulous. 

“Are you surprised?”

“A little bit.” 

“You could have died.” 

“I could have, yes.” 

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why does it bother you?”

Napoleon pauses in the middle of unwrapping the gauze, suddenly gripping it so tight his knuckles turn white. His breaths quickens, he notices, and he feels the blood rise to his cheeks. The past month had been manageable, they had almost become friendly again. But now Illya is ruining it— again, with his insane assumption that Napoleon doesn’t care what happens to him when that is possibly the only thing Napoleon cares about anymore at all. But he can’t just say that. 

“You’re my partner,” he manages, almost choking on the words. He’s so close to Illya, tilting his head up to look at him, sees Illya study every micro expression on his face, they’re too close. There’s no where he can really move. 

“They can assign you new one.”

“I don’t want a new one.”

There’s a pause where something unspoken passes between them. Napoleon watches Illya’s face, he knows he wants to ask _why._ Napoleon would not even know how to begin to answer. 

“You never seem to lack company.” 

Suddenly, he releases a shaky breath, almost a laugh. “Is that what this has been about?”

Illya frowns. So Napoleon continues, but not before he leans forward to loop the gauze around Illya’s back, crowding into his space, as he loops it around several times before securing it in place. He does not miss the way Illya’s breath hitches, or the colour that rises to his cheeks, even as he keeps his expression inscrutable. Napoleon sits back down finally, and takes his time with the knot, and he speaks. 

“Those people don’t mean anything to me. Not like you do.”

“Napoleon,” he says, and there’s a scold and a warning in his tone. Napoleon looks up, challenging him. Illya sets his jaw, “Do not tell me things you don’t mean.”

“I mean it, Peril. I don’t know how to show you that I do.”

Then, to his surprise, Illya’s hand comes to grip his jaw. 

“Not again, Peril,” he pleads, he feels his eyes prickle, “I can’t take another mistake.” 

“Were you not listening to me in Mumbai?” There’s a fresh wave of hurt at the memory. 

“I care about you, too. Obviously I do.”

“Not the way I do.”

“Peril, don’t just fucking assume—” And suddenly the distance between them has been closed, and Illya is kissing him again, and it feels like Rome again, only more desperate. Their teeth clack together, Napoleon realizes, startled, that he’s crying when he tastes the salt of it on Illya’s tongue. He feels beyond his body, hears himself whimper and moan, but all he feels— all that’s real to him— is the solid presence of Illya in his arms. His hands hover gently over the bandages he’s just wound onto Illya’s torso, he skates his palms over the broad expanse of Illya’s bare shoulders, his back, feeling the impossible warmth of them while Illya’s fever-hot mouth is pressed to his. 

Soon, it’s too much, and he has to pull away. He’s panting, tastes blood on his tongue, bunches his hair in his hands and pulls, unable to look at Illya. He smooths down his shirt, and when he does the top few buttons up again— he hadn’t even felt Illya undo them— he notices his hands are shaking. 

Then he feels a hand at his jaw, tilting his head up. Illya’s thumb comes to brush away the tears from his cheeks. His eyes focus, then, but Illya’s expression is unreadable. He’s breathing heavily too, and just looking at Napoleon, who must look wretched, hair mussed, lips red and swollen, cheeks burning red. He can’t take the silence much longer.

“Do you understand now?”

“Understand?” Illya repeats dumbly. 

“About how I feel?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you want, Peril?”

He takes a breath. “Go to your own room.” Napoleon’s heart sinks again, he heaves a shuddering sigh, gets to his feet. He should have seen it coming, but he doubts it would have hurt any less. 

He looks down at Illya where he sits, still perched on the edge of the bathtub. His bare chest, the faint scars, the bandage tight around his torso, straining where his chest heaves. He’s so beautiful it makes Napoleon sick. He doesn’t know how he manages to speak, “I can’t do this, Peril. Have me or don’t, but don’t just kiss me and throw me out.”

“Just for tonight, Cowboy. I need space… I just need to think.”

“Illya—”

“Please.” 

So he goes, the ache in his heart taking over every other thought. He stumbles into the bar in his room and drinks until he falls asleep. When he wakes up, his head is pounding from his hangover, and the pain is a welcome distraction. Illya doesn’t speak to him on their flight home, and maybe it’s for the best. 

-

**new york**

Napoleon and Illya are two stoic skyscrapers. Nothing but terse silence stretches between them and Gaby is fuming. She threatens on multiple occasions to just split them all up and move them to different teams. Napoleon and Illya both know that to a certain degree she’s bluffing, but she puts her money where her mouth his and relegates them to the New York office for a month to work admin. No missions until they can prove their petty arguments won’t put them in harm’s way, her words. 

Napoleon has been fine with that, as he’s been giving Illya his much wanted space. They work in a shared office, so that’s tough of course. Because sometimes Illya will walk in, freshly showered from the gym, strands of his sandy hair flopping into his forehead that will make Napoleon’s fingers itch to push them back. He clenches his fist and looks away instead. 

Illya has been making an effort, though, as much as he is able to do that. He stares at Napoleon when he thinks Napoleon won’t notice. He’s made small talk, and Napoleon has participated, but they’re rarely ever one on one. 

One evening, with no warning, Illya visits Napoleon’s apartment. Napoleon can’t say he’s excited to see him. But now finally something will happen. They’ve been living in limbo for too long. 

So that’s why when Illya asks, “Can I come in?” Napoleon only tightens his robe and steps aside, says nothing. He doesn’t miss how Illya’s eyes trail to the empty scotch bottles that litter his apartment, how the tightness in his expression grows a bit more pronounced. 

“What is it?” He says, finally, tired of watching Illya stare at the piles of his clothes on the floor, his rumpled sheets. Illya’s gaze shoots up to his, and he nods, looking determined. 

“I want you. And I know you want me too.” Napoleon’s not prepared for that, he freezes. 

“I do,” he manages to say, his voice hoarse. 

“Maybe it will be best for our partnership if that didn’t make things so tense.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to… take you to bed.” The way he says it, so quiet, and his voice low and husky, sends a jolt of arousal through Napoleon, his jaw drops. He’s at a loss. _Is that all?_ He thinks. But he doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to ruin whatever this moment is. With the day’s early light filtering in through the windows, and the heaviness in his head, he just doesn’t want to risk fighting again. He’s done fighting. 

So he says, “okay.” And Illya closes the distance between them. The next hours are a blur of hot, aching, pleasure, and learning Illya’s body, and letting Illya into his. And the sheets are tangled and they are tangled all together, every point of contact sends a rush through him. And Illya takes him apart over and over again, and he pulls noises from Illya of desperation, of pure wanting, that he knows will play on in his dreams. And when they’re too tired, too wrought out to keep going, Napoleon sighs, and struggles to keep his eyes open so he can just stare at Illya.

He’s a sight to behold, after everything, his skin glistening, glowing golden in the light. The taut planes of his body, the defined muscles stretching, and loose where he’s sprawled next to Napoleon on the bed. Napoleon rolls closer, folding himself in between Illya’s arms, and Illya turns and loops his arm around him to pull him closer. Napoleon tucks his face into the place where Illya’s shoulder meets his neck, it’s littered with bite marks, blossoming red where Napoleon has staked his claim. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers into Illya’s skin, and he smiles when he feels Illya’s arms tighten around him, pulling him closer still. He presses his nose against the line of Illya’s throat. “I always wondered what you would look like taken apart like that.” He feels Illya’s breath catch, through his eyelashes, the spreading blush on his cheeks. 

“How long?” Illya asks, his voice low and gravelly. 

Napoleon sighs and absently mouths along Illya’s neck and shoulder as he wonders how to answer. 

“Since Rome?” Illya prompts, his voice breathy and gasping as Napoleon runs his tongue along the cooling sweat on Illya’s skin. 

“Yes,” Napoleon admits, moving now so that he’s straddling Illya, propped up on his elbows on either side of Illya’s head, he stares into the impossible ice blue of his eyes and smirks, “but it’s not the time you’re thinking of.”

Napoleon watches the adorable way Illya’s brow furrows as he thinks, and then how his eyes widen, his voice quiet with disbelief, “You didn’t.”

“Hey, never underestimate how much I appreciate beauty.”

Illya averts his gaze then, he says his last words almost sadly, “I know. I don’t.”

Napoleon’s brow furrows in concern, “Is everything okay?” He leans down, before Illya can answer, and tries to telegraph in his kiss that Illya can trust him, that he will hear anything Illya has to say, that he loves—oh. When he lets up, there’s a thrum of panic in his heart for an entirely different reason. 

Illya is looking at him, dazed, his expression so open and at peace that is makes Napoleon’s heart ache. “How soon before you will move on to the next beautiful thing?” Illya asks, finally, his voice quiet as if to soften the blow. It doesn’t really work, and Napoleon flinches back before he can stop himself. He rolls off of Illya and sits up beside him, leaving a careful distance between them. 

“Is that what you think?” He means to say it bitterly, but the hurt in his voice is obvious. 

“I am sorry,” Illya says immediately, but then he sighs, “I don’t know how I will be enough for you.”

Napoleon almost laughs, “Enough? Illya, you’re everything. You’re it.” As soon as the words leave his mouth he’s scared, has he said too much? When he risks a glance at Illya, he’s looking back at him with a sad smile. 

“You don’t believe me,” Napoleon realizes, and he feels tears of pure frustration prickle in the corners of his eyes. He looks away furiously blinking to try and keep them at bay. Then he feels the bed shift, Illya moving to get off of it. 

“Where are you going?”

“I do not think it is smart if we sleep in same bed.” 

“Is this just about sex, then?”

“No. I just want to give you space.”

“I don’t want space, I want you.”

Illya wrings his turtleneck in his hands where he’s picked it up from the ground. He looks at it, not making eye contact with Napoleon. “I think you should think about that, Cowboy” he says, finally, “about what you really want.”

And with that, he leaves. And Napoleon stays, falling back asleep as he wonders if that was the best night of his life or the worst. 

—

**paris**

Napoleon wakes up to birdsong and the sound of shifting sheets. He turns his head sleepily as a gruff Russian giant turns and burrows into his pillow. He feels his breath leave his lungs at the sight of him. God, he’s beautiful. Sleep-rumpled and relaxed. No one else gets to see him like this. His eyes track the broad stretch of naked skin where it curves and disappears beneath the sheets. The mythic shape of his body that would make a Renaissance sculptor salivate. He can’t help it, reaching out and running his hands along a Belvedere torso of his own. 

Illya stirs, then, brows furrowing, and one eye opening. Napoleon’s hand wanders across the planes of his midriff, looping behind him stroking up along his back and then down. Until Illya finally wakes, and grabs his arms and pins him down, smothering him in a long, dirty kiss that brings back every memory from the night before, every sound. 

When he finally lets up, his gaze is tender, almost shy. There’s a blush on his cheeks that Napoleon wants to devour. There’s a question in the ice blue of his eyes. “You stayed here last night?”

“I know, I know, we don’t really do that.” He lets go of Napoleons arms, so they’re free to run across his shoulders, rub down his sides, slide up his back until Illya is soft and pliant to the touch, until he flops down on top of him and nuzzles his face into the side of Napoleon’s neck. 

“No… it’s okay.” The rumbling of his voice tickles. 

“I was just tired. From the mission. And then from you.”

“Tired of me already?”

“No, Peril. I’m saying you wore me out. You know, with all the—”

“Yes, yes. I get it.” Illya turns a truly adorable shade of pink, as he promptly gets off of Napoleon and buries his head into the nearest pillow. 

“You’re too old to be a prude, Peril.”

“You’re too old to be so shameless, Cowboy.” 

Napoleon laughs, his cheeks aching from his smile. Nothing feels like Illya, nothing has ever made him feel so _light_. In many ways, it just feels easy with Illya now. That they can do this, just fall into bed together. Of course, they’re keeping it to themselves for now, but in the past few months it has been the thing to keep them going, that’s been helping them work together. He thinks that’s why, even if Gaby suspects something, she’s happy to be discreet about it. He’s altogether a little surprised this arrangement of theirs is going as well as it is. 

He has good reason, because when he looks at Illya, an angel in his bed, with the memories of their night still pressed into his skin, he just thinks _I love you, I love you, I love you_. And he knows that it could ruin everything. But he can’t help it, and he can’t ignore the dull ache in his chest, that’s always there, with the knowledge he’ll always want something Illya can’t give him.

“We should get up now,” he says instead, and Illya sighs adorably into his pillow. “Gaby will be expecting us. And I have to get back to my room before she notices.” 

Napoleon knows he’s entirely powerless when it comes to Illya because he doesn’t leave for another twenty minutes, but to be fair, they were twenty minutes well spent. When he stumbles back into his room, crumpled clothes haphazardly thrown on, belt and coat in his hands, Gaby is waiting for him there. 

He takes it that she’s noticed.

“Nice of you to join me,” she says coolly from the couch where she delicately sips a coffee.

He’s a little unsure how to proceed. “Uh. Hi,” he tries. 

“Were you two planning on telling me about this?”

“Gaby, look—”

“No, no. I’m not angry. I’m actually quite happy that you two have managed to pull your heads out of your arses and finally do this.”

“I promise it’s not getting in the way of work.” Gaby just looks at him kind of sadly. 

“Of course it is. You’re both compromised.”

“It’s not like that. We’re not… it’s not a relationship. It’s er, just physical.”

This seems to give Gaby a bit of pause. She furrows her brow. “Are you using him, Solo?”

“What? No!” Napoleon breathes past a desperate frustration that claws his chest. “He wanted it that way.” 

“You wanted something different?”

“Gaby.” There’s a warning in his tone of voice but he’s not sure for what. She rolls her eyes. 

“You’re compromised regardless.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t think I can put you two on missions together anymore.”

“But. No, no you can’t do that. We work best together.”

“I thought you worked best alone?”

“I thought I did too.” Gaby scoffs. Napoleon can begin to feel himself getting more desperate. The thought of Illya alone, without Napoleon there to help him. Long stretches of time on opposite sides of the planet, with no real way to talk. It would mean losing everything they’d so tentatively created. “Please, Gaby. Reconsider.”

“I don’t think you understand. You Romeos risking your lives for each other— that’s going to be on us. It’s going to make you even more reckless than you already are. U.N.C.L.E. will have to pick up the pieces and I don’t want to do that.” 

“So that’s it, then. You’re separating us?” Napoleon’s voice is small, he feels a little hollow. 

“You can see each other on your off time.” 

“What happens if I don’t agree?”

“I’m not offering you a choice.” 

“What if we went back to being just partners, or friends?”

“Is that what you want?”

He thinks for a second. “No.”

“Listen, Napoleon. I know it’s going to be hard at first but this is the only way to protect you. Need I remind you, U.N.C.L.E. is much more forward thinking about these things than the C.I.A. or the KGB. We won’t let any harm come to you, but you have to understand where we are coming from.”

Napoleon curses Gaby in his head, curses her for being right. 

-

**moscow**

This isn’t his first time in Russia. It feels strange to be here without Illya. Everything reminds him of him. The colour of the snow, the biting cold, the stillness of the air. He completes his mission like a ghost, barely manages to talk to anyone, their sharp slavic features, their accents, all reminding him of someone a world away. 

He wants Illya to show him all the places he’s walked, every dream he’s had, every seedy bar, every schoolyard. He can feel Illya in every path he walks. And the more he thinks, the more time he spends alone, in his head, the harder it becomes to deny everything that’s been building up inside him all along. 

He wonders what it would take to convince Illya, that he was capable of change, that he would hold his tongue, never be cruel again, never even look at anyone else. All of these were lies, of course, and he believed no part of him would ever deserve Illya, but so badly did he want him. Waking up to the bitter winter, he wanted him. Falling asleep to a starless sky, he wanted him. 

Something goes wrong with the mission, and he’s captured, and he’s injured, and he thinks maybe he’ll memorize this pain. Anything will hurt less than if Illya doesn’t love him back, or won’t because he’s ruined it. It’s all he can think about in the dark of his cell. He doesn’t speak a word to his captors, instead eavesdrops on their conversations in Russian, dreams about someone else’s heavy cyrillic speech. 

Of course they’ve sent him backup— they wouldn’t send him alone. And they come rescue him in time, and help salvage the mission as well. He should be happy, should celebrate as the team goes out for drinks afterwards. He thinks the taste of vodka will drive him crazy right now. He nurses his bruises alone, drinks terrible whiskey instead. 

In the middle of the night, in his haze of alcohol and painkillers and heartache, he thinks— this is it. He’s going to tell Illya. He’s determined, knowing, if the worst outcome were to occur, he had months, and years, maybe even decades to live in the exile of his work. 

It had always worked for him before. 

But the alternative. To tell him. To hear it back. It could sustain him no matter where he was sent, no matter what they did to him. He could live on that alone, that hope of seeing him again, of knowing him truly, of letting himself be known back. 

He falls asleep smiling. 

-

**london**

When he sees those familiar broad shoulders stretching the wool of a turtleneck, standing stock straight and waiting for him at the gate, it’s all he can do to refrain from running towards him. Despite himself, he manages to walk at a normal pace, speak in a normal voice, and smile a normal—if far too big—smile. Illya behaves the same, but for a soft pink blush dusting his cheeks, and brief, hungry looks cast his way when he thinks Napoleon’s not looking.

Napoleon can’t look away. But he is patient, sitting on his hands in the car until they make it to their hotel. They barely even talk, in all this time, even though there’s so much Napoleon needs to say to him. He can’t think of the words right now, he’s thinking about everything else. 

The minute they enter the room, Illya crowds Napoleon against the door and kisses him fiercely, pressing him into the door until the sting of his bruises makes him hiss. Illya’s eyes flash open immediately and the pressure lets up, a foot of distance between them. 

“Were you hurt?”

Napoleon catches his breath. “No. Well. Not too badly.” 

Then Illya’s hands are at his chest, his fingers working down the buttons of his shirt. “I want to see.”

“Illya,” Napoleon tries, taking both of Illya’s hands in his, “It’s okay, really.” 

Illya looks at him, a flash of anger in his eyes, before it softens into something that makes Napoleon’s chest tighten. Then, impossibly softly, his voice breaking, he says, “I was not there.” 

Immediately, Napoleon brings his hand up to cradle one side of Illya’s face, his thumb brushes reverently over his cheek, and Illya leans into the touch. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

“But I was not there. You are hurt. I was not there.”

Napoleon pulls Illya’s face down, kisses him firmly, this is it, he tries to express it in the press of his lips. Then he pulls away, looks into Illya’s eyes, thin rings of blue and wide pupils. This is it. “I don’t blame you,” he says, “I love you.” And he braces himself for what comes next. 

Illya stares at him, frozen, his expression unchanged, locked in a furrowed brow of concern, but Napoleon isn’t sure what it means. He feels fear claw into his chest, wills the anxious thrum of his heart to slow down. 

“You are sure?” Illya whispers, all at once, in an exhale. It’s so quiet Napoleon almost doesn’t hear him, but he does, and his heart wrenches. 

“I am sure,” he says, emphatically laying his hand on Illya’s chest, and just because he can, he says, “I love you.” Illya looks away now, and Napoleon fights to keep from overthinking his actions, doesn’t let himself be disappointed, not until Illya says something. “I love you,” he says again, just in case Illya hasn’t heard him. 

“Since Rome?” he asks, finally, still looking away, head lowered, tentative and unsure.

“Yes,” Napoleon breathes, “Since Rome, since East Berlin.”

Then Illya surges forward to kiss him, and he’s not kissing gently, Napoleon can feel the desperation in his kiss, in the way his tongue seeks out Napoleon’s, and his hands still press impossibly softly against his skin, even despite everything, mindful of Napoleon’s injuries. He’s breathing heavily, they both are, they share each others breath. 

“I’ve never said it before,” Illya confesses, looking nervously at Napoleon, studying his face. Napoleon presses their foreheads together, runs his fingers along Illya’s jaw, down his neck. 

“Say it now. Please,” he whispers, “say it to me.”

“I love you,” Illya says, finally, and Napoleon smiles wider than he’s ever smiled before, presses his grin into Illya’s shoulder, wraps his arms around him and can’t let go. 

-

**rome**

The sky over the Tiber is a mess of blue, silver, and purple streaks. A late summer sunset sets their skin aglow orange as they gaze out from the bridge. Napoleon isn’t technically supposed to be here, shoulder-to-shoulder with the enemy. But he really hasn’t been the enemy for a while. If ever. 

They're not going to see each other for a month. Illya is being shipped off on some tactical mission in Chile. Napoleon is stuck working in London. But in between all of that, they have time. Napoleon glances at Illya, his sharp profile, a faint hint of his beautiful smile. 

“You know, Peril, the irony of our relationship has never escaped me.”

“Oh?”

“We were supposed to _kill_ each other.”

“Do you regret that we didn’t?”

“Very funny. Of course I don’t.” 

“Then why do you bring it up?”

“Can’t a guy reminisce?”

“About nearly killing his—” Illya pauses, awkwardly. Napoleon looks up at him, his cheeks flushing. Illya has grown a little pale, and he looks away, suddenly interested in something bobbing distantly in the waters. 

“His what?” Napoleon prompts, his voice gentle. He rests his hand next to Illya’s on the ledge of the bridge. There are a people around, walking by, and so he’s careful to let the edge of his finger just brush Illya’s before moving his hand back down. 

But Illya grabs it before he can. “His partner,” he says decisively, his grip on Napoleon’s hand steady and sure. 

In his shy smile and the nervous brush of his thumb across Napoleon’s fingers, Napoleon can see the future. His partner. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from on + off by maggie rogers


End file.
